I have already talked about how Eddie in the early 90s looked like an Edwardian actress sometimes, so now I would like to talk about how Chris Cornell in the 80s looked like a silent film vamp that would have made Theda Bara jealous.
Ok, how would you guys feel about a fic about the 76th Hunger Games? In an alternate universe, where Katniss only killed Snow, and not Coin and they went on with the Capitol children being reaped and they put them into the games? Literally as far from canon as possible and all are my oc's, except when katniss and people appear because they are a part of it!! how would we feel do we like that idea? (I'm going to post it anyway once it's done i have 34 pages so far in google docs and we are only to the first day of training this is gonna be good)
summary: your first dates and first time with andrew
warnings: cursing, fluff, smut, use of y/n, reader is irish, alcohol, porn with plot, reader is afab, i dont think i proofread this lol, lmk if there’s anything i missed!
word count: 5.5k
a/n: i wrote this a long time ago fully intending to make it way longer and possibly a series, but i decided i wasnt going to finish it and didn’t wanna leave it in my doc, so here you go. and honestly, this is just a pleasure fic i wrote with andrew in mind, but it’s not really him, yk? his name is just in there lol.
I always enjoyed going to farmer’s markets on the weekends. The fresh smell of vegetables and homemade treats always appealed to me. The people there were interesting, both the buyers and the sellers. Though I preferred to keep to myself and browse silently, it was always fun to look back on the insistent producers trying to convince me to buy their products. Or just to make small talk.
I never really had a certain thing I was looking for. Though it was definitely pricier, I enjoyed doing a little “grocery shopping” here, just to support the local farmers and artisans. Not that three candles and a loaf of sourdough bread was on my grocery list.
One thing I did enjoy keeping stocked in my pantry was honey. It went in nearly anything I made. I ate it on bread (which I would surely put on the luscious sourdough loaf I had just acquired), I put it in my tea, I used it to replace sugar in baked goods, most of the time. I even make these little honey cinnamon scones my friends rave about, though I swear they aren’t that great.
There were a surplus of honey stands at this farmer’s market, like there was every summer. Some of my friends raised bees, so they would be here every year. I was sad to hear the news that they decided to retire from the beekeeping business because they want more time for their family, and having so many bees wasn’t working for them. There was a possibility of picking up the hobby again in the future, with way fewer bees, but for now, they needed a break.
I really enjoyed talking with them as I browsed their many honey flavors and honey sticks. This year was my venture to find a new honey vendor, one with actual good honey, and not the fake stuff in the plastic bear bottle.
A few shops caught my eye, none extremely exciting. I bought a few sticks, just to sample. If I liked one, maybe I would come back later. I usually stayed here all day, smelling every candle, feeling every melon, buying one too many rolls and pastries.
One stand—though it was more plain, it had a homemade feel to it—caught my eye. There was a table in front of the tent, a yellow tablecloth draped over a setup for the honey. Different little mason jars sat on their respective pedestals, while inside the tent was a rug with three other tables holding the same honey. A man sat inside, behind his front table. He looked like the kind of guy to keep bees.
I approached the stand, looking around inside. It smelled like flowers and dirt, reminding me of the times when I would visit my friends and they would take me around their bees. There were no honey sticks for me to buy as samples, and I wondered if he would allow people to try anything. The little Byrne & Bloom label was adorable, sweet little pink flowers lining the label. Though, nothing really set his honey apart from any other vendor out here. It had the comb in it. It was in a mason jar with a tastefully designed logo, but it wasn’t the logo that was going to make me buy it.
“Want to try some?”
I turned around to face the voice, honey jar still in my hand. It was the man sitting behind the table earlier—the one who looked like he would keep bees. He barely fit inside the tent, the flyaways in his long hair grazing the top of the canvas covering.
“Oh—that would be great. Thank you.”
He turned his back to me to fish a wooden spoon and a half-full jar of honey off of a small table next to his chair. He opened the lid—with a little difficulty, since it was stuck—and dipped the spoon in. The amber-colored honey drizzled off, most of it landing in a glob back in the jar. He dug back in, successfully getting a sample-worthy spoonful. He handed the spoon to me and watched as I tried his honey.
The honey wasn’t too thick, but it was thin enough to drizzle like icing. I didn’t know if it was a specific flavor he sold, since none of the labels said otherwise, but there was a delicious undertone of orange and thyme. It tasted like bottled sunlight, warm and comforting.
“How is it?” the man asked, raising his brows.
I nodded, “It’s delicious. Wow. That’s amazing.” I licked any remaining honey off the wooden spoon, hoping to get another taste of that velvety goodness.
He smiled at me as I grabbed two more jars to add to my handful of tote bags and his other jar of honey.
“You’re buying it?” He said, shock covering his face. He acted as if I was his first customer, even though I had heard him make three sales while I was still browsing.
“Oh, yeah. I couldn’t leave this gold behind.”
His smile was genuine as he followed me to the front table. He scribbled numbers on a small yellow notepad—prices, I assumed—and I pulled my card out of my wallet that I had to keep handy at places like this.
He held up a hand, stopping me from giving him my card. He pointed to a sign, “Sorry, cash only. My card reader broke a few markets ago. Still need to get a new one.”
I chuckled as I looked down at my wallet. I learned quickly years ago that carrying cash with you to farmer’s markets was a necessity. He put the fragile jars of honey in a brown paper bag—two, since these were flimsy and the honey was heavy—and passed it to me. Our fingers brushed, and I quickly looked down to busy myself with putting my wallet back in my tote, which I didn’t really need to do. Because he was handsome and tall, and he made good honey. And that just so happened to be exactly my type.
“I’m Andrew,” he said. No hand shake, just his name like he was already in the middle of a conversation.
I looked at him and smiled. “I’m Y/n.” I paused, not knowing what to say. I settled on, “I’ll be back next weekend, if you’re still selling.”
His eyes crinkled with a smile. “I’ll save you a jar.”
Though, I would be buying more, that was for sure, I didn’t need anymore now that I had three of his jars. I liked honey, but I didn’t go through it that quickly. Still, it was to support a small business. And a handsome business owner.
The next week, I was back again. The sun wasn’t as blindingly hot today, and the humidity in the air made my hair feel dirty, though I washed it the night before. Little children ran around, begging their parents to buy them a little stuffed animal on display or a cotton candy.
Andrew’s station was in the middle of the chaos, but I made it my first stop. He was in a cream henley and a sage overshirt, sleeves rolled up at the elbows, crinkling a pattern into the fabric. His jeans were faded, and definitely had years of wear put into them.
He talked to an old woman who looked like she had many questions. He might have been standing there for a very long time, his weight was in one leg, and the lady was leaning on the table, cane in one hand. She seemed very interested, with her head craned as far up as it looked possible, while he still was farther back so he wasn’t towering over her. He talked with his hand, one of them occupied by his golden colored honey. He occasionally pushed his curls behind his ear as he spoke, the wind finding its way around the tent.
I walked up to the stand in the front. It looked almost the same as last week, just fewer jars of honey on the stands. He was probably going to sell out soon. If not by other people, then by me. As I looked at the honey (occasionally looking up to see how the progress with the older lady was going), he met my eyes. He smiled a warm smile, like he was happy to see me. For the rest of the conversation—which lasted around three more minutes—he smiled at her. He smiled at her the whole time, but this was a more excited smile. He somehow was more interested in the conversation than before.
When she finally bought one of his smallest jars of honey and hobbled off with her cane and faux-leather purse, Andrew brought his attention to me. “Welcome back,” he said, smiling with all of his teeth. “I saved you a jar.”
I looked around at all of the jars on display. Were they not all the same flavor? “You have different flavors?”
He looked sheepishly at the ground as he pulled out a jar of Byrne & Bloom honey from under the table. “No, I don’t. I suppose I just wanted to keep my word.”
I blushed as I realized he remembered our conversation from last week, and he was looking forward to seeing me. “Oh. Well, in that case, thank you.” I took the jar from him. Our fingers brushed—again—and he tried to seem careless about it, but the mischief in his eyes gave him away. He didn’t let me pay for that jar of honey. I begrudgingly thanked him, though it meant a lot.
I came back the next week. And the week after that. And the week after that. Every time, I would stay at his tent the longest. And every time, he would have a jar for me. We would talk and talk, usually about absolutely nothing. I looked forward to the weekends even more than I did before, just because it meant I could talk to him.
One week, he gave me my free jar of honey, with words scribbled on the top.
Crescent Hill
Tomorrow 6 PM
If you’re free…
***
I finally got the opportunity to wear my yellow sundress I bought last Friday, and I felt pretty. My hair was curled perfectly, I did my makeup well on the first try. I told Andrew I would bring some honey cinnamon scones to the picnic. It was probably not the best thing to be so stressed about if he would like my silly little scones or not. I used his honey, so he was bound to enjoy that part.
I made it to Crescent Hill just in time. I’d been here a few times before for family gatherings, but we usually met on the other side, where the gazebos were. There were around ten other people out here—couples, by the looks of their romantic picnic setups—and I searched them all to see if they were Andrew. When I saw the lone man, hair blowing in the breeze, I made my hike up and down the shallow-sloped hill to meet him.
He was sitting with his ankles crossed on the classic red-and-white checkered picnic blanket, flannel blowing in the breeze. A guitar laid next to him and there was a bottle of red wine and a few plates of sandwiches and sweets. It looked like we were having lunch for dinner.
“Hello,” I said, arriving within hearing distance.
“Hey, yourself,” He smiled.
I crouched down and sat the scones on the ground, next to the little lemon cookies that looked homemade. I scanned the selection of food, and felt guilty for only bringing one thing. “I wish you would have told me to bring more,” I said, grimacing at my own lack of thoughtfulness.
He waved his hand in the air, quickly telling me not to worry. “I like cooking, anyway. I really just want to try your scones. Were they honey and cinnamon?”
I nodded. He handed me a plate and we piled our food onto them, and then he poured our glasses of wine.
“I don’t know if you drink, but I figured I should bring it anyway. It seemed more romantic than bottled water,” He smiled as he watched himself pour.
I laughed and took a sip. “I enjoy a nice drink every once in a while.”
When we began eating, the first thing he did was take a bite of one of my scones. He chewed, stopped, and looked at me. “Oh, my God. These are absolutely perfect.” He closed his eyes, letting out a content moan at the taste of them. “You really think your friends aren’t obsessed with these?”
I wiped my mouth with my napkin, embarrassed by the praise. “I just assume they’re overreacting. They’re always dramatic.”
He licked the honey and cinnamon off of his fingers, and spoke with his food in his cheek. “You are not allowed to downplay your baking anymore.”
I smiled and took a bite of my sandwich. “Well, thank you.”
We talked until our stomachs were full and the sun was nearly set behind the green hills. He strummed a few chords and songs on the guitar as we talked. He played beautifully, and when I asked him what he was playing, he replied “Like Real People Do.” I had never heard the song before, but it was beautiful. I told myself that I would look it up tonight.
When we wrapped up, we agreed to meet again the same time next week, me with scones (and more food, I told myself), and him with the guitar. He walked me to my car, and we kissed. There was no warning, no reason for him to turn me around and place his lips on mine. But we kissed, and it was so tender, and so sweet.
“Next week for sure?” He raised his eyebrows, hands still on my shoulders from spinning me to face him again.
“Next week, for sure.” I grinned.
***
The night of our first date, I looked up the song he had played on the guitar. It was written by a man named Hozier, and I took a peek at some of his other songs. It surprised me that one of his most popular songs was called “Take Me to Church,” with such sexual lyrics. I wondered if Andrew knew any of his other songs, and if he listened to this one. He seemed so sweet and innocent, I couldn’t picture him listening to it.
That was when I delved deeper into Hozier. I looked up interviews, surprised at seeing Andrew’s face in the thumbnails. He spoke in interviews, talking about his songs. I thought the man singing in “Like Real People Do,” sounded oddly like Andrew, and that it only seemed fitting that he would like those songs, since it sounded like him singing it. Except, it was him singing it.
I brought it up on our second date, and he was bashful about admitting he was a famous singer. He only said he writes songs and he sings them, but never bragged about how big he was. Because, truth is, he had a pretty large fanbase.
On our fourth date, he took me to his favorite record store. He had bought us less than great coffee, but we sipped it anyway as we roamed the store. It was full of old and new records, crazy bands I had never heard of, and some of his favorite music. It smelled nostalgic, and the wood floors were definitely original. You couldn’t move without them making some sort of strange noise. We walked around, looking at album covers, laughing at the silly ones.
He would pull out many artists and delve into detail about how he loves them. Many were classics. He would tell me how Ella Fitzgerald is “absolutely amazing,” and how he grew up with John Lee Hooker and Tom Waits. It was adorable seeing his face light up when he found an artist he grew up listening to or still does.
I ended up buying an Ella Fitzgerald record, having grown up with a little bit of her music, too. We left right as the shop was closing, 8 PM on Tuesdays.
“I don’t have a record player,” I said as we walked out of the store, hands intertwined. I laughed as I looked at his face: smiling from shock.
“Then why did you get the record?”
“Because you convinced me to. And I like Ella Fitzgerald. Maybe I can have it as decoration in my house…”
“If you’re going to have it as a decoration, I think you need a record player, too.”
“I guess you’re right.”
That’s when the rain started. I felt a few drops earlier, when we were getting to the store, but now it decided to rain buckets.
I yelped and used the plastic bag holding my vinyl over my hair. I tried to drag him to his car, but he wouldn’t run. He pulled me back, and twirled me effortlessly.
“It’s raining!” I said, trying to urge him to get to the car so I didn’t ruin my hair.
He laughed, “I know!”
Laying his bag on the ground, in the middle of the empty parking lot, twenty feet away from his car, he put his hand on my waist and started dancing with me. I felt like a child dancing with her father, stepping on his feet and being tossed around like a ragdoll. I finally dropped my bag on the ground next to Andrew’s and danced with him. He twirled me, dipped me (almost dropped me), and by the time we finished dancing, we were completely soaked through.
We laughed as we got into his car, clothes stuck to us like a second skin.
“You’re insane,” I laughed, barely able to get a word out. My hair stuck to my face and neck, becoming a sensory issue. I quickly braided it to get it out of my face.
“You danced with me,” he replied, making it sound like I was the crazy one.
I laid my head back on the headrest. Turning to look at him, I met his eyes already looking at me.
“Can I kiss you?”
I blushed. “You don’t have to ask.”
We leaned in. He cupped my face and my hand rested on his shoulder. He kissed my lips, opening his mouth so I would let his tongue in. We separated, a line of saliva marking where we once were connected.
“We should get out of these clothes.”
He smiled at my suggestion. “Yeah?”
My heart hammered in my chest, making my body all warm and shaky. I nodded, though I quickly wondered how such a giant of a man would be able to have sex in such a tiny car. As he tried, and nearly failed to climb into the backseat, I discarded my cardigan.
“Jesus, this was not designed for people over six feet.” He leaned his back against the door, knees bent more than mine would have been. We look at each other. “Maybe we should do this at my place.”
I let out a choked laugh as he tried to climb back into the front seat, his gangly legs kicking anything in sight. “You’re gonna break something. Like a kneecap. Or the gearshift.”
“Not my fault. God gave me these legs.” He got into the driver’s seat, finally, and let out an exhausted sigh. “I think that’s the first time I’ve crawled into the backseat of a car.”
His house was definitely secluded. He had mentioned to me that he lived in the country, near the woods. He talked about the screaming foxes he would hear at night. How there were woodpeckers in the morning. It was very green, but so was the rest of Ireland. His house was a quaint, cottage-like building. There was water dripping from the trees, a sweet little flower garden in the front. I finally had a visual for “In the Woods Somewhere.”
He parked and told me to stay in my seat. He got out and ran around the car to open my door for me. I took the hand he offered me.
“Thank you, kind sir,” I giggled.
“Of course, m’lady,” he bowed, acting funny.
His home was beautiful. Even his front door was gorgeous, an amazing dark wood door, with little carved plants and designs. His house was cluttered, but in a charming way. There was a forgotten mug of tea on his windowsill, instruments laying in random places. You could see the whole living room, kitchen, and dining room when you walked in, it was that small. Bookshelves galore, a comfortable looking couch, a coat hanger with many of his jackets. It smelled like wood and books, which made sense with the full bookshelves and extremely old floors.
I was acutely aware of every droplet of water racing down my back now, our shoes making dark spots on the mat. He reached behind me to flick on a light, warm and glowing. “We didn’t get to finish what we started…” His voice was low.
I turned to him, his partially wet hair was in his face. He tucked it behind his ear, like I had seen him do so many times before. “I know.”
I pulled him by his jacket down to my level and pressed my lips onto his. His huge hands grabbed my head, damp hair and all, capturing me in a kiss. He pressed his forehead to mine. “Are you sure you want this?”
“Oh, yes,” I answered. He kissed me hard. He crouched down and lifted me up. I wrapped my legs around his waist as he somehow carried me effortlessly. He began walking blindly through a house he knew every inch of.
My back hit the wall; I wasn’t expecting it. His body pressed me into the wall, his hands moving from holding me up by my ass to my waist. He gave little pecks all across my face in between words, “You’re so…” His lips moved to make hot, wet kisses down my neck. I moaned as he found a sweet spot.
When he heard my moan, he moaned too, and stayed in that one spot that made me melt. He sucked on my neck, making sure there was a mark. He looked at me with dark eyes. “God, I can’t get enough of you.”
He set me down and began peeling off his clothes, and so did I. It was difficult trying to get wet clothes off your body when they really didn’t want to come off. My bra and underwear were soaked through, and so were his boxers. We stood there silently, both in our underwear, wondering where to go from here. Like we were both virgins. I stepped forward, kissing him again, his scruff scratching my cheeks. He grabbed my hand and guided me through the hall to his bedroom. More books, another forgotten mug of some drink. His bed was plainly made, but we messed up the covers when I fell back on the bed and he got on top of me.
He kissed me like he wanted to learn me. Like he wanted to learn every way to make me gasp, moan, whimper. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, darling,” he whispered into my lips.
His hand wandered down my leg, closer and closer to where I needed him most. He stopped at my hip, and rubbed light circles on the waistband of my underwear. He lifted one side off my skin, thumb hooked through. “Can I take these off?”
I nodded and lifted my hips up as he removed the damp cloth off my skin, tossing them somewhere into the oblivion of his room. I reached an arm behind me to unclasp my bra, immediately feeling more comfortable and free after being in it all day. I threw it in the same general direction that Andrew threw my underwear. He whimpered as I kissed him, the feeling of his hardening cock on my thigh.
“Christ, you’re unreal,” he palmed my breasts, mouth on my neck, his breath hotter than ever. I felt like I was already sweating, and we had just gotten our clothes off. Andrew was still in his boxers. I wanted to change that, but he was on his knees before I got a chance.
“You’re already so wet for me,” he smirked as his eyes took in my glistening pussy.
I leaned back onto my elbows on the bed. “That could be the rain,” I joked.
He laughed and looked up at me. “Are you saying I don’t turn you on?”
“Oh, you definitely turn me on,” I smirked.
“Good,” he growled, turning his attention back to where he wanted to be most. He grabbed my ankle and hooked my leg over his shoulder and mimicked the action with my other leg. His breath was hot against my heat, and I fell back on the bed, waiting for what was to come.
I didn’t dare look down at him, for fear my face would turn into such a red color I would embarrass myself too much. I felt his tongue lick a slow, steady stripe up my clit. He hummed. “Mmm. You’re everything. You hear me? Everything.”
He dove in, his warm tongue circling my bud and gently sucking. I arched my back off the bed, the pleasure making me curl my toes. He flattened his tongue, licking all of my juices. One of his thin fingers crept to my hole, pumping in and out quickly.
“F-fuck…Andrew,” I cried.
I was shaking, my knuckles were white from gripping the sheets. I wasn’t sure whether to cry, laugh, or beg him for mercy. But I didn’t want him to stop, God, it felt so good.
He groaned into my heat, and I felt the vibrations tingle all the way up my body. He hit my g-spot time after time, fingers curling just right. “Look at me, honey.”
I opened my tightly shut eyes to look at him as he stopped his ministration. Once I looked into his eyes, his tongue continued moving, bringing me closer to my climax. My eyes wandered from his back to the ceiling, feeling my face become hotter by the second. He stopped again.
“Love…”
He smiled at me, and his fingers worked harder and faster than before. I felt the heat in my belly swirl and tighten. Andrew pressed soft kisses to my thighs. “You gonna come for me, baby?”
I nodded and whimpered a restrained “Yes.” My eyes rolled back and my head dug into the mattress as my orgasm crashed down on me. He attatched his lips to me again, drinking me in. Groaning as he licked me clean, he stood up. His hard-on was very prominent, forming a tent in his boxers.
He was smiling like a man who just finished the Lord’s work, as if he just brought someone to Christ. It felt like I had just met him, so, in a way, he did. He’s trembling a little. “I need to be inside you, baby,” he said, a little laugh spilling through.
He pulled his boxers down, his erect cock slapping his stomach. He was big. I watched him, wide-eyed and breathing heavily as he took a condom out of his dresser drawer. The foil crinkled as he unwrapped the rubber. He fit it onto his thick cock, and looked back at me. His hand pumped up and down his length.
“You ok, darling?”
I barely heard him, my mind was swirling and fuzzy; and that was only from his mouth and fingers. What would it be like to actually have him inside me? hitting me deeper than his long fingers could? I nodded as he brushed my hair from my face, no longer wet from the rain outside.
“Breathe. I’ve got you,” he gently spoke. I knew he wasn’t going to rush me into anything, he wasn’t that kind of guy. It felt a little different though, more meaningful. Here he was, cock hard and ready for action, and he was softly rubbing my cheek, as if he could wait weeks for me to recover.
He kissed me softly, cradling my head in his hands.
“I wanna feel you,” I whispered into his mouth, voice trembling.
His eyes darkened as he leaned down to press a kiss to my jaw. “Yeah?”
“Mmhm.”
He pressed little kisses down my neck. “Tell me if you need me to stop, ok?” His voice was hoarse, like he was trying to hold back until I responded. “Please?”
“I will.”
His eyes searched my face, trying to find any hint of a lie. “I want you,” I promised.
He exhaled a breath that seemed like he’d been holding for hours. He climbed onto the bed in front of me, on his knees. Cock hard and practically pulsing. He pushed my legs apart; I had closed them earlier, bashful of having them open. He lifted my legs up and put two pillows under my hips to hold me up. My legs were settled on top of his, and I wrapped them around his waist. The tip of his dick prodded my entrance, just the slight feeling of something—anything—making him groan.
It was clear he was holding back. He inched himself inside me slowly, stretching me more than he did with his fingers. His head threw back, “Fuck~”
I let out a cry of pain and pleasure. I clenched my eyes shut, waiting for him to bottom out.
“You feel so good, Y/n”
He stilled as the base of his cock was flush against me. “Look at me,” his voice cracked.
I opened my eyes, almost crossing them from the feeling of him filling me up so well.
“There she is,” he pressed wet kisses to my jaw, neck, under my ear. “Tell me how it feels…”
I let out the breath I was holding. “It feels so good…you fill me up so well.”
He moaned at the fact he was making me feel good, like that was his one job: to make sure I was satisfied. He pulled out slightly, sucking in air between his teeth. The feeling was wondrous, once I got past the pain of him stretching me out. His hips slowly came towards me again, forcing the pleasure through my bones once again. He gripped my hips, as if I was the only one keeping him from fucking me like an animal. He was purposefully holding back, just to tease me.
“Please, Andrew,” I gasped. “More~”
“You want more, love?”
I nodded quickly, anything to bring more pleasure to my aching core.
His speed picked up. Not a lot, but enough to make me moan after each thrust of his hips, his cock hitting my g-spot, better than his fingers did. My thighs were shaking—I had no control over my body. My stomach heaving, chest trembling, arms tense. And he wasn’t even using his full power—I wondered what it would be like if he stopped holding back and fucked me ruthless. He would ruin me for anyone else, like he already had.
“You’re taking me so good, baby. Gonna make your pretty pussy come on my cock, yeah?”
I replied with a throaty moan.
“Do you want me to ruin you, baby?” His hand wrapped around my waist, lifting me off the bed and against his chest. He ran his lips down my throat while I leaned my head back, the slightly new angle hitting all new places inside me. My fingers found their home in his hair, tugging his curls as he bounced me up and down on his stiff length.
I pulled his face out of the crook of my neck and kissed his lips, fighting his tongue for dominance. A sound burst from his chest, like a groan. He rutted his hips into mine and bounced me up and down all at the same time, going at an ungodly pace. My moan cracked halfway, leaving me with a soundless open mouth.
“‘M gonna cum!” I yelled.
“Wait a minute, baby. Le’ me cum with you.”
He laid me down on the bed, able to have more control, changing the angle. I screamed his name in pleasure. He warned me he was going to come.
I came around his cock, my hole throbbing and pulsing. A moment later I felt the twitch of his cock and his warm cum fill his condom.
“Y/n!” He screamed as he came, his head thrown back in pleasure. His hips stuttered, unable to decide whether to keep thrusting or to stop for his convulsing cock.
His hands caged me under him. It took all he had not to collapse his huge body on top of mine, so he slipped out of me and landed next to me on the bed. Our chests heaved out-of-sync as we bathed in the afterglow of our escapades. The rain hammered on the window, almost like applause for the show we put on.
“You okay?” he asked, once he caught his breath.
My heart raced as I tried to get the answer out as smoothly as possible, without my voice shaking. “God, never better.”
